


let's be hopeful (don't be broken)

by sameboots



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, First Kiss, Jaime Lannister makes better decisions, Pining, and a couple of disastrous ones, correcting the sins of seasons 6 & 7, yes this is another divergence where jaime kisses brienne in the tent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-07
Updated: 2019-10-07
Packaged: 2020-11-26 11:01:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20929118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sameboots/pseuds/sameboots
Summary: A canon divergence of The Tent Scene.--“Gods,” he interrupts, tempted to roll his eyes like a child. “Can you not simply call me by my name? I am declaring my intentions to you, and you use mytitle.”“Declaring your intentions?” She sounds disbelieving. As if,somehow, he meant loyalty to her as a soldier and not a woman.He pauses then, lets the weight of what he’s about to say fill the space around them. “I would be honored to be yours,” he says, his voice quiet but sure. “If you’ll have me.”"If I’ll have you,” she says, a small huff of sardonic laughter escaping. “IfI’llhaveyou.”





	let's be hopeful (don't be broken)

**Author's Note:**

> I started this a prompt fill on tumblr, but it ended up not filling the prompt. x-posted to my tumblr @agirlnamedkeith originally.
> 
> Title is from the James Bay song 'Wild Love'.

“It’s yours,” Jaime says, his throat tight with all the words he holds back. That he’s held back for so long. “It will _always_ be yours.” 

Brienne looks at him, and he would swear there’s still a rope tethering him to her. He’s as much a prisoner to her as when they first met, but it’s no longer something a simple as a physical restraint. 

He’s tired. 

He’s just so tired of it all.

He’s tired of looking at his sister and seeing a stranger. He’s tired of being told what a failure he is. He’s tired of everyone looking at him to only find fault. Everyone, that is, except for this imposing woman. He knows everyone else looks at her and sees an abomination. A creature who doesn’t fit into the boundaries of womanhood or manhood. Someone with the hard muscle of any soldier, and the soft eyes of a maiden. 

Jaime’s not sure when he stopped seeing the oddity that everyone else seems to, but he did. At some point, the sight of her has become the only thing that makes him feel like he might be capable of something more than horrible acts. 

Before he even knows what he’s doing, he’s moving closer to her. She’s looked down to resheathe the sword, and when she lifts her eyes once again, her brow furrows further, as if confused at finding him so much closer.

“Ser Jaime?” she questions. Her chest rises and falls with shallow breaths. Her lips tremble with nerves.

He can’t stop himself in that moment, at the sight of her stern mouth softened, opening on the precipice of a question. He doesn’t want to answer it, doesn’t even want her to speak and crack this fragile moment.

He does it for her. He surges up, hand around the back of her neck pulling her to him, his mouth pressing against hers, hard and desperate. The most shocking part–even more than the feeling of kissing someone other than Cersei–is that she doesn’t fight him. Her lips open, allowing his tongue to slide along her own. She’s clumsy, unpracticed, but she whimpers as he deepens the kiss and follows him as he sinks back to stand flat-footed again. 

Their armor clangs together, and all he wants is to feel the warmth of her body against his, to feel the strength of her covered in the gentle curves he saw in that bath a lifetime ago. 

“I want you,” he groans, _confesses_, breaking their embrace only as long as it takes to finally say the words aloud. 

She jerks away from him them, her endlessly blue eyes startled, shocked, but not horrified. She’s scared, perhaps, but not disgusted at the idea of his desire. The shock fades, and he thinks, hopes, he can see an answering hunger within her. 

But then she steps away from him, swallows heavily, and all but whispers, “I must go.”

She’s gone so quickly. 

He can’t make his legs move to follow her. 

–

Jaime didn’t think he would ever see her again, but there she is, standing on a dais in King’s Landing as if it’s something normal for her to exist in the same space as his sister. She wears the furs of the North, declaring her alliance even more clearly. Yet, at her hip sits the sword he gave her. It makes something in his gut clench with want and fear and joy. 

But Cersei is next to him, and he knows that if he pays any mind to Brienne, it will make her a target, and he couldn’t bear if his new captor hurt this woman who embodies the only good shreds of his soul that still exist. Still, he can’t quite prevent his eyes from drifting to her, finding her already looking at him, the same want and fear and joy he feels reflecting back from the depths of her gaze.

He tries to seem casual as he looks away again, but he can feel Cersei’s eyes on him, and when he turns his head, she looks mutinous. 

Things blur after that, there are dragons and undead monsters and requests for aid batted away by his sister, as selfish and cruel as ever. 

He follows, though. 

He always follows. 

Brienne comes after him. 

“Fuck loyalty,” she tells him vehemently. The shock of those words rocks him. He can’t do anything but stare at her and wish that passion were for him alone. 

It’s useless. 

It’s useless to want her, to remember the taste of her mouth, and the thump of her pulse beneath his palm.

–

He slips away from the castle that night to find their encampment. It’s not as if it doesn’t occur to him to worry over how he’ll find her tent, or if he’ll be caught and killed on sight. He can’t blame them if they do. 

Instead, she’s patrolling the perimeter, of course she is. As if sensing his eyes on her, she turns toward him. Her jaw slacks with surprise. She glances around, checking for others before she walks to where he lurks in the trees. 

“I tried,” he murmurs as soon as she’s near enough to hear. “I spoke with my sister. She refuses.”

Brienne isn’t surprised at that, resignation firming the line of her mouth. He wishes he was better, wants to be good enough for her, capable of more. 

“Thank you for trying,” she says quietly, flatly. It’s that emotionless declaration, the fact that she never expected him to succeed, that infuriates him. 

No, it’s not fury. That’s an emotion he keeps in reserve for monsters like The Mountain or his own family. No, what he feels is anger at himself for never giving her more reason to believe in him. 

“I’m coming with you,” he says, not knowing the truth of it until the words fall from his lips. 

She does look shocked at that. He thinks if he pushed her just a little, she would fall over. The mere thought of easily felling the sturdy wall of soldier before him makes him smile. 

Brienne glowers. “This is no time for a jape, Ser Jaime. I know your loyalty is to your–your Queen,” she stumbles around the words, as if only remembering at the last moment to neutralize what Cersei is to him. 

His heart pounds, his lips nearly numb with the fear, _panic_, of what he’s chosen. Because he has chosen now. 

He’s certain.

“I’m not coming for the dragon queen or the fucking Northerners with their judging eyes,” he tells her, not bothering to calm the bitterness he still feels, his lack of desire to be with these people that loathe him. “I’m coming with you. I choose you.” 

If she were shocked before, the emotion that floods her face is something even stronger. “Ser Jaime–”

  
“Gods,” he interrupts, tempted to roll his eyes like a child. “Can you not simply call me by my name? I am declaring my intentions to you, and you use my_ title_.”

“Declaring your intentions?” She sounds disbelieving. As if, _somehow_, he meant loyalty to her as a soldier and not a woman.

He pauses then, lets the weight of what he’s about to say fill the space around them. “I would be honored to be yours,” he says, his voice quiet but sure. “If you’ll have me.”

“If I’ll have you,” she says, a small huff of sardonic laughter escaping. “If _I’ll _have _you_.”

“I know I’m a dishonorable man,” he says, worry turning his stomach. “But I will prove myself to you. However long it takes, I will show that I can be a man that may someday be worthy of you.”

“You are already an honorable man,” she pauses, and all but mutters, “_Jaime_.”

She says his name as if rolling it around her mouth like a fine wine. It makes him _want_, not that he ever truly stopped. 

“So you’ll have me?” he asks, needing her to say the words, needing to hear them. 

She sucks in a breath, fear still lurking in her eyes. Fear and disbelief and hope and–he thinks, perhaps–love. 

“Yes,” she breathes. “I’ll have you.”

She kisses him this time, hesitant as if she still expects it all to be some cruel joke. He pulls her in as far as her armor will allow, not caring how hard it is against him. He’s incapable of caring about anything in this moment except the taste of her mouth, and the love that he can feel in every caress of her lips and hands.


End file.
